


Montarius Vane, Interstellar Rake

by considerthelily



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Anti-Hero, Bisexual Male Character, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Extremely Underage, F/M, Gang Rape, Group Sex, I'm seriously not kidding about the misogyny, Id Fic, M/M, Misogyny, Multi, Oral Sex, Pederasty, Prostitution, Public Sex, Racism, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sibling Incest, Space Pirates, Space Steampunk, like woah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18529642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/considerthelily/pseuds/considerthelily
Summary: The antiheroic misadventures of Montarius Vane the sexual omnivore, and his mission to fuck the whole galaxy.





	Montarius Vane, Interstellar Rake

**Author's Note:**

> NOTICE: persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. —Mark Twain
> 
> This is pure idfic—the MC is the most disgusting, despicable, selfish, self-centred, self-absorbed fuckup of a human being imaginable—basically every Byronic hero combined but a thousand times worse. This in no way reflects the attitudes, opinions or inclinations of the author. The tags/warnings are there for a reason. If this doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, please don’t read.

I do not believe in love.

I believe in lust.

Love is only ever a euphemism, a prettification of lust, like a beautiful dress on an aging whore. Rip off the dress, and there she is in all her foul, poxy glory: sagging dugs, flapping cunny and all. True love is no more to be found outside of the pages of frivolous books than good food and comfort is to be found in this wretched prison to which I am presently confined. Love is a fantasy; lust is the reality.

It is lust that has shaped the landscape of my life; as I gaze back over its plains and promontories, I revel in the glories of my past conquests. Despite the chill dankness of the cell, I feel my prick grow warm and heavy with desire. Alas that I have nothing to fuck but my clenched fist, for I do not have even a cellmate in this miserable hole. I curse Fortune, that fickle, feckless slut for casting me into this plight.

The only comfort I have lies in recollection, though memory is as much a torment as a comfort...

Anyhow, I have pen and paper, and nothing else to do but write.

So, as a man who does not believe in love, I must tell you that the first name entered in lust’s ledger-book is that of a boy called Marten.

The youngest son of a crofting family that lived on my family’s estate, he was brought into my nursery when I had been only five years in this world, and I was told that henceforth he would be my companion in schooling, play, and all life’s other activities. He was my age, his birthday falling a little behind mine, but was somewhat smaller than me, which I liked, though I did not then fully understand why.

Our play was at first quite innocent: hide-and-seek, wrestling and so forth. There was of course the natural curiosity about one another’s bodies, particularly the small dangling parts that the nurses were accustomed to caress when they were trying to calm us or lull us to sleep. But nothing outright erotic, at least, not to begin with.

We climbed and made starbases in the stands of huge ironoaks on the borders of the estate; we fished inedible rainbow carp from the polluted streams and ponds; we played tricks on the veritable legion of maids, butlers, footmen, grooms and tradesmen that bustled through the cavernous and incessantly-renovated halls of Vane Manor—one was to sneak after a maid, and pull the strings of her apron so they came unravelled; on more daring days we would run up behind some poor girl bending over a grate or scrubbing a stretch of tiled floor, and deliver a terrific whack to her rump with a broom or clothes-beater, and then run giggling off again. With the male staff we were fascinated by how the tightness of the black trousers accentuated the often shapely mounds of their arses. Our game with them was to induce one to bend over and take a look at some trifle in which we would feign great interest, while the other crept up behind the unfortunate victim and nailed him between the buttocks with some pointed instrument, commonly a closed pair of scissors, or writing stylus. It is a wonder we did not do any of them permanent damage. At any rate, there were more than a few footman pacing the halls with red faces and ripped trousers. When not tormenting the servants we made pretend as space reavers, hunting down lost treasure-troves on dead worlds and carrying off maidens by the armful (though we had then only the haziest ideas of what space reavers _did_ to the maidens they carried off)— and we always threw stones at the other crofter children when they tried to intrude on our private world. In short, we were much like any boys our age, though I fancy a good deal cleverer—or at least _I_ was.

But soon our childish amusements bloomed into something altogether less innocent.

At first our budding concupiscence was focussed on the opposite sex, naturally enough, for apart from each other we had almost no contact with the world of men, which was to us indescribably exotic and enticing. Instead, it was the bevy of nurses, nannies and maids that minded us who became our first prey.

Willing prey, to be sure, most of them, for we soon discovered it took very little coaxing at all to entice the subjects of our attentions to swish aside their long skirts, or unbutton their bodices, and expose those strange, alien features of anatomy which so utterly transfixed our boyish imaginations. Normally we would get no more than looking—the first tentative touch and petticoats were pulled down, bodices hastily fastened up.

When we were older, and had diligently studied the lay of the lower land of each of our female attendants, we tired of furtive glances and surreptitious strokings— our appetites required meatier fare.

We turned our sights on the girls of the village (the boys were on the whole too big and bellicose to be amenable to our ends). One of our favourite tactics was to ‘capture’ a girl, present to her a wriggling toad or earthworm or cockchafer, and threaten to slip the loathsome creature down the front of her blouse unless she lifted up her skirt to show us her ‘privates’. Most gave in readily enough; those that didn’t we would throw into the duckpond, and hoot and holler as our victim dragged herself out of the water, sopping dress clinging to her skin and showing all there was of her (which wasn’t much, really, these lasses being no older than we were. But it was more than enough to get our young blood flowing, and flowing in very particular directions).

Once, we invited the daughters of some of the better village families to a tea party. There they were, all done up in their best Sunday dresses, and there we were in the next room, carefully dipping our willies in each cup of tea, suppressing giggles, before we served them, with much ceremony, to our somewhat overawed guests. We found it frightfully funny, but we didn’t invite those particular girls again; they were too religiously brought-up to be any fun, and the methods a seven-year-old boy has at his disposal to induce a girl to surrender her chastity are crude at best.

Eventually we tired of these japes. We soon found we had more to learn from each other than from any number of twittering schoolgirls.

 

I believe it was in the bath that we first discovered the mutual pleasure that could be attained from two masculine bodies working in concert. Together in the soapy water we slipped and slid our naked bodies over and around each other, and the most delightful sensations ran through me. We sported with such enthusiasm that the watching nurse feared lest we should crack open our heads on the ceramic tiles, but we were heedless of the risk; our only thought was to attain that hitherto-unimagined end, that Olympian peak which presently had us gasping and stirring the bathwater with our vibrations.

After that we forget about girls, and became wholeheartedly absorbed with one another.

Once our nurse came in upon us twisted together with our pantaloons around her knees, suckling on each other’s miniature manhood like babes at their mother’s teat. Fortunately the girl was a randy young bint, and instead of running shrieking to our parents, she bade us continue while she watched, diddling herself under her petticoats (I remember she left a permanent stain on the floral upholstery of her chair, and the carpet underneath).

I first attained orgasm (a dry one) when I was no more than nine, thrusting my hard organ into Marten’s wet, willing mouth, and feeling my body racked by tremors of bliss.  I first penetrated Marten when I was twelve and he was eleven. He squealed like a skewered pig, for at twelve I was as large as most men are at twenty, and my inexpert preparations with butter pinched from the kitchen (for the price of submitting to the cook’s garlicky kiss) proved wholly inadequate. This did not dissuade me in the slightest; on the contrary, it was then I discovered that the pleasure I derive from sexual congress is proportional to the pain it causes my lover. I do not know why this is; I was made that way, and indeed would not wish to be any other.

Marten begged me to stop, or at least to slow down; I merely pushed his head into the pillow to stifle his sobs, and pressed on. I rutted back and forth, feeling his inner walls stretch and contract around me, revelling in the tightness and warmth. Before long the tremors took me, and I pushed myself in as deeply as I could go, my bollocks crushed against his taint, my teeth biting his tawny hair.

But I did not taste the supreme height of pleasure, that of spilling my seed into the wet heat of another’s body, until the day after my thirteenth birthday.

 

We came upon Etty Farnworth picking daffodils in the manor’s park, and decided she was to be our reaver booty (never mind that we had not played space reavers for years). We told her that she was trespassing on Vane land, and that she was stealing besides.

‘Ooh, sirs’, she gasped, dropping her basket and spilling flowers all across the lawn. ‘I never knew there was nothing wrong with it, to be sure. I wasn’t meaning no harm.’

‘Never mind’, I said. ‘You’ve got to be punished. Come with us; we’ll show you how we deal with thieves and trespassers.’

And with some of difficulty we got her up into our treetop ‘star-fortress’ (she was a rather hefty girl, for her age). She played along with good humour, though I doubted whether she had been had by any other boy, being as plain as they came; indeed, I do not think she had the slightest idea what we meant with her, though she must have felt our excitement through our trousers. Rather slow-witted, Etty was, or so I had heard, and she simply stared with eyes wide as saucers, letting out nary a squeak as I took down my trousers, and my erection sprang up, brand-hot and eager.

I shoved her down upon her back and crawled on top of her (any other way and I should have been fair crushed), pushing up her skirts and ripping them where they would not give.[1] There it was, two meaty thighs and the smooth (thankfully) mound of her cunny where they met. I pushed forward, and meeting resistance, pushed harder. She gasped, and before I knew it I was fully sheathed inside her. She was looser than Marten, but wetter. I rode her well, I dare say; as well as any lad my age could, but I fear my stamina left something to be desired. I cannot have made more than a dozen thrusts before I felt my climax descend upon me. There was a roaring in my ears, spots danced before my eyes; I gripped her by the throat and stopped my pounding. I held myself absolutely still, hilted full inside her, as my mind was engulfed by an indescribable pleasure. It was a revelation, a veritable apocalypse.

I felt wetness around my cock, and knew that I had finally attained a full release.

I collapsed atop her, exhausted, but incomprehensibly blissful. As I lay there I wondered whether my dead, illustrious father, he who had conquered a princess of the Blood Imperial, would have been disappointed in me, had he known that this plain, pudgy village girl was his son’s first real conquest. For that is what she was: Etty Farnworth, the first to receive my seed, the first I had claimed as _mine._

Marten envied her that, I believe. I think that was why he, normally the gentler of the two of us, was so brutal with her when he took her after me. She was sniffling, not giggling when she limped back to the village, and left a trail of red droplets on the gold autumn leaves.

Marten, you see, was desperately in love with me, but I quite honestly could not have cared whether he lived or died; he was but a vessel for my pleasure, a vehicle for my whims and not infrequently the object of my cruelty.

For instance, whenever I misbehaved he was whipped in my stead, a sight which I always found most arousing, especially when I was allowed to administer the beating myself. In truth, I am surprised the tutors did not notice the prodigious bulge my throbbing cock made in my breeches as I laid blow after blow across the snowy plains of his bare flesh. As soon as the grown-ups left I would force myself into his quivering bunghole, not even bothering to prepare the way with spit as was our usual practice. He did not resist, however, for though he would never admit it, he took as much pleasure in receiving pain as I had in giving it.

Marten grew into a lad handsome enough after a homely, peasant fashion, and certainly lusty enough to match my appetite, which, far from abating, only grew as I entered my teens.

By the time I was fourteen, however, his family needed him back to work their croft. He wept when we were parted; I did not. In truth, his departure came as a relief more than anything.

Over the past year he had shot up tremendously in height, and filled out besides, until he surpassed me in size (though not in endowment—I have never met a man who did). I have always been slender, though with a wiry strength that has served me well in many a scrap. Even as a child I was never pudgy as most children are; it is as though all my bulk has gone into my member...

In any event, I misliked having a partner bigger than me; it threatened to overturn the balance of power which I had so carefully maintained. Indeed, with his greater size came a new-discovered boldness, and he began to show signs of chafing under my hitherto-unquestioned dominance. I bore his importunities with as much good grace as I could muster, until one night when, without warning, he turned me over upon my face and thrust his middle finger into my arsehole, full to the second knuckle. I must admit the shriek that came from my lungs was enough to shame my manhood.

When I demanded to know what the devil he thought he was _doing_ , Marten said he was sick of being on bottom, and ‘wanted to try it the other way for a change.’

That I would _not_ permit, for I will not play the woman’s part. I threw him out of my bed with many curses and would have taken after him with my riding crop, had I not been conscious of the other sleeping inhabitants of the house. Over the following nights he slept outside my door, and every day begged my forgiveness with tearful apologies. I was cold to him, and held him to perform many tests of loyalty and abject abasements (the worst, if I remember rightly, was making him drink a warm glass of my piss), ere I would deign to pardon him. But once I had passed a few lonely nights, lust forced me to re-admit him to my bed. Virtual nymphs were no substitute for real flesh and warm blood.

After that incident he was as submissive as you like—meek, even, not breathing a word of protest when I subjected to him all the vengeful artifices the depravity of my mind could invent. I laid him over the rocking horse in the nursery and whipped him till he was whimpering, then fucked him dry, until he was bleeding. I had him in a girl’s pinafore, in frilly stockings and lace garters—I even made him shave the fine hair he was getting on his belly, legs and buttocks. I had him in the stables, on the table in the grand dining room; we even had one particularly acrobatic bout of tupping on the roof, in the middle of the day and in full view of anyone who chanced to look up (I was equal parts relieved and disappointed that no one did).

Even so, I did not miss him when he went away. As I said, he had grown too big for my liking--and there were others I now had my eye on...

 

❧

 

Is that a scream? From further down the corridor, if I am not mistaken. Some hapless young morsel is learning the prison pecking order. A pity I’m not there to observe the lesson, or to aid in its administration. I wonder if he is very pretty...

I fear I must now pause for a spell, to attend to that other penmanship, with the pen that writes in white ink.

 

* * *

 

[1] It is a matter of some debate in worldly circles which is to be preferred: the voluminous (though flimsy) skirts, coats and petticoats of the Grand Anglian Empire, where clothes are a signifier of status, or the progressively scantier garments one finds the further one gets from the galactic core, culminating in the sartorial laws of the Rim Territories, where females have no status, and thus are permitted no clothing whatsoever. For myself, I think both have their charms. The abbreviated garb of the Rimmer has the function of 'showing off the goods', as they would say, the convenience of displaying fully a woman's charms, or lack thereof, and making possible a quick, almost instantaneous, assessment of her appeal, and facilitating ease of access besides. The more sober attire of the Core woman nonetheless has its own attraction; the very covering-up of her figure serves to inflame the imagination, and the difficulty in achieving ingress through all the layers of dresses and underclothes is a kind of foreplay in itself. Nothing excites a man like a challenge, after all. This principle of course finds its apotheosis in the all-concealing veils of the Star Sultanate of Rumiyya, where it is death for a woman to reveal so much as an eyelash once she is outside her master's house, creating an aura of mystery and unattainability which can be nowhere surpassed.


End file.
